"You mustn't talk like that. But I'll ignore your nose if you tell me more about White Sands Proving Grounds, as you promised." "With pleasure, with pleasure," he said, sinking his teeth into a pork chop, having seasoned the chop with the soft-boiled egg yolk. "But right now I'm in a hurry to get to the Palace. Give my shoes an extra shine, there's a good girl." "Oh, you and your secrets!" An hour later, Pashkov landed on the Palace roof in Colonel James' flier--an exact copy of his own flier. The Palace roof captain stared at him, then smiled nervously. "They are waiting for you in the Gustavus room, Colonel." "Colonel? Do I still look like Colonel James?" "Oh, no, sir." "Do I talk like Colonel James?" "You've changed completely, sir. If I didn't know, I would swear you were the notorious Gospodin Pashkov." "I am Gospodin Pashkov now, Captain. To everybody." "Of course, sir. I'll ring down you are coming." Pashkov glanced at his watch. Colonel James would be landing in Moscow about now and taken to Comrade Petchareff for questioning. A manservant in velvet cutaways, patent leather shoes and white gloves, escorted Pashkov through rooms hung with chandeliers, tapestries, paintings. Pashkov entered the last room and stopped as the door clicked shut behind him. * * * * * In the room were three men, all of whom he recognized: Professor Kristin of the Swedish Academy, a white-haired old man with a kind, intelligent face; the king, Gustavus IX, a thin old man stroking his Vandyke, sitting under a portrait of Frederick the Great; and Monsieur Fanti, the make-up surgeon. Pashkov bowed his head. "Your majesty. Gentlemen." "Extraordinary!" Professor Kristin said. Pashkov turned to the surgeon. "Monsieur, should my face have such a frivolous expression?" M. Fanti raised his eyebrows, but did not answer. "I thought," said Pashkov, "that Gospodin Pashkov's face has a more brutal look." "Propaganda," said the artist. But he came closer and looked at Pashkov's face with sudden interest. Professor Kristin said, "Colonel James, we presume you have studied the problem in detail. I'm afraid we have delayed announcing the Nobel prize for literature much too long. How soon can you bring Boris Knackenpast to Stockholm?" So there it was: Boris Knackenpast a supreme success, as Pashkov had suspected. It would be amusing to tell robotist Medvedev about it. "Delicate, very delicate," Pashkov said. "Everything depends on my not running into Gospodin Pashkov." "We can't wait any longer," Professor Kristin said. "Fortunately, we have an ally in the enemy camp. The robotist, Medvedev, is expecting you at Knackenpast's villa." "Bad show," M. Fanti said suddenly. "No good. His left cheekbone is at least four centimeters too high." The men looked at the surgeon, then at Pashkov. M. Fanti fingered Pashkov's cheekbone. "How could I have made such a mistake! Just look at him. People laugh at such faces."